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But again... The intel outweighs my discomfort.
Tico lives in Estrada’s compound, not that he wants to. A series of unfortunate events took him from one serial killer to another and another. He’s now got a bird’s eye view of the lion’s den, and I need the basic blueprints and guard rotations to plan an attack. After I explained some of this to Tico, he jumped at the idea of fucking over his absentee-turned-abductor grandfather.
His mother had hated Esteban Estrada too.
Now he understands why.
There’s a scantily stocked bar positioned inside an old conference-type meeting area. The door sits along one wall in the main room, but most of the wall separating them has been cut out to make way for a floor-to-ceiling window. It’s still barely lit with nothing but LED strips and flashing fairy lights… though it’s quieter than the raging party beyond the thick glass once I close the music away.
I can hear myself think, which is a vast improvement. I’ll have to go back into the noise and chaos soon.
By scantily stocked, I mean the bar holds a million bottles of water and exactly zero bottles of scotch. They’ve got juice too. All the juice you can dream of. And some other dumb shit... But I laser focus on the whiskey as the bartender—juice-tender?—shuffles toward me.
“Whiskey neat.”
“House rules. You’re either drinking or—”
“I’m here for a public fuck,” I dryly cut in as I hand him a fifty. “Just wanna knock it off my bucket list, then I’m going home. Whiskey neat, please.”
The man standing beside me chuckles as he swirls his glass. “This isn’t the cleanest place for a public fuck, quick or not.”
“Who said anything about quick?” I ask, though I don’t care for an answer.
He nods. “No nut is quick when you’ve popped a few beans.”
“No nut is worth walking away with a gift I didn’t ask for either,” I sarcastically point out.
“Can’t argue that.” He tips his glass toward me as the bartender passes my whiskey.
I turn my back to the bar, scanning what I can see of the rowdy crowd. Bright colors meld together, creating a rainbow sea of writhing people with flashing neon cat ears on their heads as they twirl glowing objects in their hands. It looks like a great way to walk out with a black eye, so I make note to steer clear of those women.
There are too many side rooms to keep track of all the party-goers, but I have no interest in themed drug usage. Getting fucked up in a fake jungle and passing out on a cesspool of a couch isn’t my idea of a good time.
“You babysitting?” he inquires. “Or the DD?”
“Something like that,” I reply evasively, wanting to avoid this conversation. “You?”
“Something like that,” he repeats, turning to mock my stance.
And that’s when I get a good look at his face. It takes me by surprise, though I refuse to let my expression show that.
Because I know this man.
I don’t know him know him... But we went to school together. And if I remember correctly, which I hope I’m not, he’s Riot’s cousin.
I just can’t fucking say if this is Quin or Ezra Copeland. Who knows if they still look alike? Don’t twins stop being so identical as they grow older? Or am I making that up?
“You look familiar,” one of the Copeland brothers says to me.
Fuck if I know who.
“I just have that kind of face,” I explain.
“Nah,” he mutters, tilting his head as he stares at me. “Didn’t we go to school together?”
I frown as if I’m thinking about his question. “Probably not.”
He points at me. “Saint Carmen? Damn. What’s your fucking name?”
